


The Lion-hearted

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 07:35:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/720490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warning for implied domestic abuse. pre-canon, pre-sam's birth. Gen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lion-hearted

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from Mary Sarton's "For My Mother"

Like a great balloon awaiting ballast, she floats from room to room untethered, alone. Carries the hand of her eldest in a loose fist, the other child stewing inside her.

There’s something dark about this birth, this waiting. Something poisonous and lithe as love, something that lurks around the corners of her bedroom, lingers under the covers with warm, dangerous hands.

At night, in bed, she presses a hand over her stomach, the other in the empty space beside her. She waits.

She knows that they love her, her boys.

She doesn’t know  _why._  

She tells him – the boy outside of her, the freckled toddler with his toothy grin, his always reaching hands –  _angels are watching over you._ She knows it’s true. Knows that his tiny body is safe, protected by wings and halos, if not by God. He can lie safe whilst she goes downstairs, whilst she plants herself on the couch, swollen feet out in front of her, and cries, and cries, and cries, the noise of late-night TV playing in the background.  

Sometimes, John comes home, and sometimes they have to amuse themselves, she and Dean; play games, run around the house together, her swollen belly impeding her pace. They build forts; they bake. They talk for hours, Dean’s head leant against the swell of her stomach, his eyes slipping closed to the sound of her heart. He’s warm, her little boy, in every way; loves his brother already, will sleep curled as close as he can to where the baby floats inside her. He will kiss her belly-button, and hold her hand, and giggle when she kisses his nose in return.

Her little man. Her protector in jammies with feet, murmuring badly along to her Beatles LPs. Sleeping in bed with her when he has nightmares. Saying, constantly – I love you, mom. It’s okay.

It’s okay. I’ve got you.

He’s _four._

she tells him,  _angels are watching over you,_ waiting by his crib for the noise of the door opening downstairs; the stink of whiskey, the start of a fight.

She musses the hair on Dean’s forehead. Trails her hand over his brow, in love with him so  _hard_  it almost leaves her breathless.

She says,  _you have angels, Dean._ But one thought presses at her, selfish and ugly.

Where are  _mine?_


End file.
